Arrangement
by Solaras Inc
Summary: Turpin wonders how much his patronage is worth to Mr. Todd and his barbershop. Turpin/Sweeney


Disclaimer: Nothing involving Sweeney Todd belongs to me. I'm just borrowing for non-profit purposes.

Author's Notes: **Edited Version: **This is an 'R' version of a 'Nc-17' story that I wrote for a Fest over at sweeneyslash on livejournal. The theme I used was Turpin/Sweeney-Razor Kink. For those of you who are of age, and want to read the complete smut, you are welcome to track the down the fic over there. I think the 'R' version stands pretty well as it is, but as with all things edited, you do lose something in the translation.

Now on with fic!

**Arrangement**

His fingers slid across the cool surface of the coin; its edges nicked and one corner slightly bent, no doubt from a hasty and mismanaged minting. The scrap of dull metal felt smooth and flat against the fleshy palm it pressed into. Turpin's fingers slid away, as the warden's hand collapsed around its hidden treasure. A quick glint, a smooth flick, and a brush over a dingy white coat, and the coin vanished.

"See that no lasting harm comes to her, nothing permanently disfiguring," Turpin said in an even tone that left no doubt to the power of his position, and the implied threat thereof. "Understood?"

"Yes sir, and if the wigmakers should call, sir?"

"Well, it _does_ grow back; in fact, should such a gentleman call, give him a prod in the right direction. It seems I spared the rod too much in the past."

"A bit of stiff handed care, and she'll be set to right, sir."

"When her tune changes, send word to my residence."

"Yes sir, Judge Turpin, sir."

Turpin stared through the slot at the mass of filthy bodies milling aimlessly beyond the cell door. The thin and underfed women, with the bones of their limbs visible with every movement, the blue veins stark against translucent flesh, paid no heed to the bright beacon among them. Johanna sat like a budding flower amongst a field of withered dandelions; her yellow hair fresh and clean. With eyes wide and dark in the murky light of Bedlam, Johanna stared back at the Judge, defiant.

With a last nod to the warden (even if the man's credentials proved un-forged, Turpin couldn't bring himself to call him doctor) Turpin turned to leave the dank halls of the asylum; the warden bobbing in a swift bow behind him. A few days submersed in the unwanted and forgotten, and Johanna would see the generosity of his offer of marriage. He looked forward to soothing and nurturing the wilted flower, watching her bloom and bask in his saving light.

The London morning dawning outside Bedlam was pale and grey. To the East, just visible over the tops of shadowed buildings, a weak pink light struggled to pierce the foggy haze. So far the day promised to be bleak, as bleak as Judge Turpin's mood. Despite his careful watching and guidance, Johanna was still led astray; and by some commonplace sailor. Only his own luck, his fortunate happenstance to be in place to hear the plot revealed, had saved his naïve Johanna from disgrace. The boy warranted watching, as he had been warned off before; a good job for Beadle to perform. Unclear, however, was how knowledgeable the would-be accomplice.

Turpin shifted his gaze to the direction of Fleet Street. The boy certainly held the Barber of Fleet Street as a confidant, but if remained to be discovered how much the barber, Mr. Todd, knew about the subject of the intended escapade. The man had been honored, no doubt, to receive the patronage of someone as high aloft as Judge Turpin himself, that perhaps had he known that Johanna was his ward; he would have counseled the boy against such ill-placed intentions. With hard times falling on the lowers of London, perhaps the barber could be a blade that cut both ways; and in difference to the success of his establishment, persuade the boy to abandon his fool's quest. A second visit to the barber might be worthwhile, if it meant gaining an ally. The sooner the boy left the picture; the sooner Johanna's disheartenment, and the sooner Turpin's plans regained their track. If the barber proved less than useful, then Turpin would know the face of a further enemy; however, if he proved willing, then Turpin still needed a shave.

Turpin scanned the far side of the street for a familiar portly figure. Beadle lingered in the shop front of a bakery passing a pastry from hand to hand, shaking the empty hand in turn and blowing on the fingers. Upon noticing Turpin's gaze and subsequent lift of the chin, Beadle jerked up from his slouch, fumbled his sweet roll (near to dropping) and hurried across the street.

"We're done here," said Turpin.

"Very good, my Lord, will you be returning home?" asked Beadle, as he shuffled his pastry behind him and out of sight.

"No, I think not. There is another errand I wish to attend to this morning, and then you and I shall discuss what is to be done with the sailor."

"Don't you worry, sir, I'll take care of him properly this time."

"Yes, but first I wish to route out all the conspirators. Perhaps the answer is among them. The strategy of divide and conquer should never be discounted my friend."

"Very clever, my Lord, and the errand, sir?"

"We are bound for Fleet Street," the Judge said, and let his feet follow his gaze away from the asylum. Beadle followed behind him stuffing pieces of pastry into his mouth; bits of flake landing on the lapels of his coat. Around them the world continued to lighten; the shadows creeping back to their origins. The fog rolled away from shops busy with early morning stock and prep, only to be replaced by puffs of grey-brown dirt being swept into the street. The swish-swish of brooms fell silent as Turpin passed, a gentleman moving among the working class.

The shop of destination loomed cold and grey in the shadow of the larger establishments around it. Smoke, black against the paling sky, drifted lazily from the smokestack. A light fluttered in the downstairs shop, but the upstairs windows showed no signs of life. Turpin climbed the wooden stairway. The planks creaked under his steps, and echoed by Beadle behind him, the aged wood sagging with the added weight. Morning dew slid off the railing where his hand slid along the beam. At the top of the stairs, Turpin raised a hand to knock on the door, announce his presence, and wake the barber if necessary; but his knuckles never touched more than air, as through the window he could see the barber already awake.

Light glinted off the blade of one of the barber's seven day set. Turpin had seen the beautifully crafted silver-handled razors on his previous visit, and now one of those smiling blades rasped over the barber's pale throat. Head back and dark eyes fixed on the razor's reflection in the mirror, Mr. Todd followed the path of white lather; every stroke revealing newly shaved and sensitive flesh. The razor descended to the basin of water on the counter, an arc of silver following in its wake. The barber's chin tilted down, eyes always on the blade, as if tied by a string to the razor. Beyond the windows opposite Turpin, the sun finally breached the barrier of stone buildings. Full morning reached across the barbershop; fingers of pale gold caressed their way over the arch of the barber's cheek, wet and glistening in the light.

The razor rose again. Turpin's hand dropped. Mr. Todd's head fell back, his eyelids lowered, and the blade under his chin. Turpin gripped the doorknob. The razor moved slow and smooth against the line of the barber's throat. Turpin turned the knob, and pushed against the door. Mr. Todd's eyes cut to the side, and Turpin felt the piercing sensation, but it was Mr. Todd who bled. A thin line of red rose under the edge of the blade, still pressed to the barber's throat; his hand held tense and unmoving.

"I wish to speak with you Mr. Todd," Turpin began, "I'm sure you will forgive the early hour." The light of the new day found no purchase in the night-dark eyes that regarded the Judge with a wary and strange depth. The eyes of the barber followed him, as Turpin stepped fully into the shop. A tread at the door, and the eyes swept to Beadle behind him. Mr. Todd narrowed his eyes ever so faintly at the second visitor; a slight indention under the eyes causing the lower lids to rise and slide inward. The barber returned his stare to Turpin, and lowered the razor in a stiff movement.

"Judge Turpin, I wasn't expecting the honor," Mr. Todd said. His fingers flexed around the handle of the straight razor.

"Quite so, but I being a man of the law, felt that you should have the chance to redeem yourself." Turpin watched the muscles around the dark eyes relax, and the eyes widen; the morning light filling them, and the strange intensity disappearing behind the veil of the polite and eager servant.

"The great and honorable Judge Turpin is most forgiving," Mr. Todd said with a bow of the head. "What can I do for you today? A bit of pamper and pomade?"

"Later perhaps."

Turpin watched the barber's head rise, but remain slightly downcast in supplication. The man's hands spread in an inviting entreaty; the once tense arms now loose and easy, minus the quick twitch of the fingers still wrapped around the razor. Mr. Todd returned the scrutiny from under long black lashes. His eyes were alive and alight now, but Turpin could still see something of the haunting darkness in their depths. Turpin hesitated for a beat, waiting for the hunter he had glimpsed to reappear, but the smiling supplicant remained. The light from the window brushed along the delicate curve of the barber's jaw. The man possessed an elegant bone structure, not unlike Turpin's beloved Johanna. Turpin's eyes were drawn to the slide and stretch of pale skin over the fragile bones of Mr. Todd's wrist. The man had closed the razor, the blade hidden with in the handle, and his fingers caressed the silver casing. His thumb slid along the ridge concealing the blade, around the head, over the tip, and back again.

"Beadle?" Turpin inquired over his shoulder. He let his head turn, but kept his eyes on the barber.

"Yes, sir?"

"Wait downstairs. Speak with the woman, Mrs. Lovett, about our pressing matter."

"Ah yes sir, good idea. I shall wait for you in the pie shop," Beadle replied with a tip of his head. He let his gaze rest heavily on the barber, and with a sharp flick of the wrist, extended his walking stick. Beadle held it briefly like an ornate club, and then his grip eased and his hand slid up over the handle. He gave a slow nod to the barber and left the upstairs shop. Mr. Todd's eyes followed him out with a brief calculating gleam flashing through them, which dissipated as quickly as it came as the open and shut of the downstairs door echoed in the upstairs shop. His gaze returned to Turpin, as placating as ever. Turpin took a step forward and then another, closing the distance between them.

"Now Mr. Todd, I wish to discuss the disturbance that took place here the other day. The boy, how close are you to him?"

"Anthony, sir? Not very close at all," Mr. Todd replied, fingers still tracing the contours of the razor casing. "I took passage on a ship he served on, and he knows very few people in London. I told him he might call upon me, that is all."

"Am I to understand, that you didn't know of his intentions to usurp my ward?" Turpin asked, as he moved to stand in front of the barber.

"Of course not, sir. I think he might have mentioned seeing a lovely girl in the city, but I had no idea he had set his sights on such a proper young lady, and one in your honorable care as well," the barber stated with his hand fisted over the razor, surely a sign of vexation. Turpin smiled. He had read the barber correctly; his patronage was worth more than a mangy sailor.

"Perhaps you and I could reach an arrangement, Mr. Todd."

"Of course, Judge Turpin, I am your servant," the barber replied, and bowed his head before the judge. Wisps of the wild black hair brushed across Turpin's coat, so close had he placed himself to the barber.

"Are you Mr. Todd?" Turpin said, voice low in his throat. "You should see to that," he said, and brushed a finger across the weeping red line on the barber's throat. The barber started at the touch, and drew back a step into the counter behind him. His wide eyes narrowed swiftly, the blackness sweeping through them, before the mask of gentility settle again.

"Yes, of course," said Mr. Todd. He laid down the razor, picked up the towel resting beside the water basin, and pressed the cloth to his throat. After dabbing under his chin for a moment, the barber held out the towel with a gesture to the red stain on Turpin's own hand. Turpin brought the hand up, but instead of grasping the towel, he wrapped his fingers around Mr. Todd's wrist. His grip was firm, and he could feel the bones shift under his palm, as Mr. Todd jerked instinctively against the restriction. Turpin's other hand reached around the barber to pick up the razor. He held the silver instrument at eye level, and the Mr. Todd's eyes were riveted to the housed blade.

"You should have more care, Mr. Todd. It doesn't do for one of your profession to cut himself." Turpin let his thumb trace the path Mr. Todd had laid out earlier: along the back, over the head, and across the tip. The barber's eyes followed the movement. Soldiers had their guns, constables their sticks, and barbers, fittingly, their razors. Women were strange creatures, that which all the volumes Turpin had amassed still failed to explain, but men were much easier; even the strange and dark Mr. Todd. "Lovely things, your blades," Turpin said in a dark voice, and ran the tip of the closed blade over the barber's cheek and down his throat. He pressed the cold metal to the red line marring the pale flesh. "Tell me Mr. Todd, what is your Christian name?" The barber's eyes drew up to Turpin's, darted to the door, down to the floor (the shop) below, and back to Turpin's; and the judge knew his intent was understood.

"Sweeny," the man said with a slight stutter, as if another syllable was lodged on his tongue, "Sweeny Todd, sir." Turpin smiled, and used the razor to tilt the shorter man's head back.

"Yes, an arrangement, Sweeny Todd."

Turpin brought his mouth down over the pale lips of the barber. For a moment the barber was stiff against the counter. Turpin pressed the razor hard under Sweeny's Adam's apple, and the man opened his mouth, his body slumped against the counter, and Turpin pressed against him. Turpin's tongue invaded the pliant mouth, lapped at the teeth, and wrapped around the tongue that shied away from his own. The barber tasted metallic, like the silver razor gliding along his collar bone.

Turpin pulled back so that his lips merely rested against the barber's. Every breath he took he stole from the man before him, and then fed the air back to him. Sweeney's eyes were very dark. The darkness and the depth of those endless orbs chased away the light. A cold shiver ran down Turpin's spine, as he stared into the eyes of the barber.

"Come now Sweeney Todd, have a little more enthusiasm for your patron," Turpin said; his lips brushing gently across Sweeney's with every word. "What passions do you hide behind that exterior of the polite servant of men?"

"Who says I'm hiding anything?"

"Everyone hides something Mr. Todd, and you, I think, hide quite a lot. Let us dispense with repression today."

Turpin kissed Sweeney again, and hummed a pleased sound in the back of his throat when the other man responded. The hand not holding the razor glided around to the barber's back; the fingers ran down the length of the barber's back, and molded around the firm curve of Sweeney's ass. Turpin pushed a leg between Sweeney's and used his handhold to pull them groin to groin. The barber's head fell back with a gasp, as his weight ground him into Turpin's thigh. Sweeney's hands gripped Turpin's shoulders in an effort to keep his shaky balance, and in response Turpin hitched the man higher off the ground. Sweeney fell against him, chest to chest, and Turpin continued to rock against him.

Turpin claimed Sweeney's mouth again, and pushed his tongue hungrily inside. He slid the closed razor between them, and ran it along the side of the erection pressed into his thigh. The barber choked on a moan, and brought his hand down to fumble for the razor, but Turpin moved it out of reach.

"How much you must care about your tools Mr. Todd," Turpin said roughly, "such an exquisite set of razors; beautiful, like their keeper." Turpin spun the barber around, and pressed him into the counter. Turpin held the razor in front of the barber, and pulled the blade from its sheath. "A man should love the tools of his trade," Turpin said as he opened Sweeney's trousers with his free hand. Sweeney's hand scrabbled across the counter and grasped a jar of pomade. Meeting the dark eyes in the mirror, Turpin slid his hand along Sweeney's arm and took the jar. "Do your blades sing for you? I think I'd like you to sing for me."

* * *

When the judge was left winded behind him, Sweeney moved away first, but only so far as to pull up his pants and lean against the counter. His breaths left him in panting gasps. Turpin laid the open razor on the counter and straighten his clothing. The barber's hand reached out and gripped the razor's handle. In the mirror, Turpin could see that the cut on Mr. Todd's throat had opened again. Red dripped down the pale column of flesh. 

The barber turned with razor in hand. His face was pale and shadowed; the flush gone as if it had never been. His eyes were dark with a strange haunting depth. Turpin watched the fingers holding the razor flex. Outside the stairs creaked, and both men turned to the door.

"Judge Turpin, sir?" Beadle called through the door. "You are due at the Court House soon." Turpin turned back to Mr. Todd, and found the barber's smile once more on his face; his eyes alight.

"A beneficial arrangement indeed, Sweeney Todd," said Turpin.

"Perhaps, you'll get your shave next time, sir," replied Mr. Todd.

End

Thanks for stopping by

Solaras


End file.
